


substantial

by ColorblindCity



Series: in short, shallow gasps [6]
Category: Jane Eyre (2011), Jane Eyre - All Media Types, Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: F/M, a variation of 'the voice', and the wind, feat. the lightning struck tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorblindCity/pseuds/ColorblindCity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the wind! yes! fairy-born,<br/>wild thing that she is,<br/>could she have the power<br/>to send her soul soaring with the winds?</p>
            </blockquote>





	substantial

**Author's Note:**

> this might be my favorite yet...

 

 

...the wind cuts and deafens, raging;

pilot has run off to seek shelter, 

left his master to fend for himself

as the afternoon dies, as does he...

 

 

he sits, lonely and friendless,  

by the tree that warned him

of the misfortunes to come,

and thinks to apologize 

to the poor, half-dead thing,

 

 

yet half-dead, split apart, it blooms!

The nerve of that blasted tree!

to drop its blossoms as rain, 

let them swirl almost delicate, 

to taunt him with their perfume 

bitter as her absence, but, oh!

sweet as the memory of her.

 

 

“Speak to me!” is the cry, 

both insolent and supplicant,

torn from him unwilling, 

drifting away with the breeze. 

 

 

and then he ponders on how

clandestine words tend to run off 

as soon as they are released 

then hide in faraway corners 

in the deepest heart of the forest 

 

 

before they can be mutilated by 

the very lips that bid them live 

before they can be confined 

to cold dungeons within 

the labyrinths of the mind—

 

 

he wishes, then, to be a word, 

that he might reach her

as would perhaps a letter

or a poem or a song

(or a prayer or a plea or)

 

 

Yet where to send his words?

He's searched far and wide 

long and arduous and untiring

yet not sign, not a breath of her...

could the wind know? Then:

 

 

  
_“Edward!_

_Edward!_

_Edward!”_  

and he's mad and blind,

he might as well be

a superstitious fool.

 

 

for the wind in her rage

becomes almost substantial,  

and with a ghostly hand

brushes (tortures) his scarred face.

 

 

the wind! yes! fairy-born,

wild thing that she is,

could she have the power

to send her soul soaring with the winds? 

 

 

he breathes her in, she fills his lungs,  

chases away the smoke of fires long dead, 

wipes the sweat from his forehead, 

whispers of delights, dreams long lost...

 

 

 

  
“Where are you?"  

                                 the wind carries far, 

                                                                        over the mountains, 

                                                                                                                across the moors, 

                                                                                                                                                   delivers it to her darling ear...

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                            ...then, swiftly, unhesitant,

                                                                                                             restores to him her spirit 

                                                                   by way of her blessed,

                                  beloved accents:

 

_“I am coming:_

 

 

_wait for me!”_

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
